Author, Poet, Photographer
The arched brow receives
Its morning line of painted black.
An eyelash is brushed back in
Concentrated hush, to veil the
Failure of your naked face
To race the blood of strangers
With desire.
The pale lips purse, to meet
The fleeting touch of chosen gloss.
Revealing much, of learning skill
To thrill those men with envy
Who cannot possess your masked caress,
Nor leave your bed, with lips
Impressed by red and glazéd
Stain of vain pretence.
This daily ritual of the mask
Becomes a task of no surprise.
I see your peacock eyes express
The lies, which colour hides
From those exposed to self imposed
Concealment, of the true and
Newdawn beauty of your face.
© James Rainsford